Chapter 3:
Under the Tree
A gentle breeze rattled the branches above Mireille as she thoughtfully sat on a park bench. The park was quite empty due to the day's dull, bruised sky. But Mireille liked it that way. The beautiful days that had followed Kirika's death disgusted her; gray was better than gorgeous days versus rainy days, which were the pinks and blacks of her undying emotions.
Mireille looked obliviously at her hands in her lap, welcoming the fresh air that rippled through her angelic hair, lost in her hazy reverie; haunted by flashbacks of her family's death, her uncle's—whose life she took—and then Kirika's recent death.
It was an endless motion screen in her mind. Kirika's death, not to mention the hand that thrust that knife. Mireille couldn't help but grit her teeth once more and shakily tighten her grip on her jacket.
It was just too painful.
Mireille then knew one thing. She now swore a solemn oath to herself that she'd never get close to anyone anymore. Getting close to her uncle and her lover from a long time ago, was too much. Losing Kirika was a warning. She could not afford enduring pain anymore. Yet, Mireille also swore that she'd live a worthy life in memory of Kirika; though Kirika has departed this dark world in peace, the memory of her, and her caring love for Mireille, would never vanish.
That settled it. Mireille knew she had always said to herself that she'd never get close to anyone, then later end up doing exactly so. This time, after all the painful losses she's gone through, she knew that this world was too cruel enough to build another special relationship.
"Hey."
Mireille looked up, noticing someone. She froze.
No . . . way . . .
"Is it really you?" Mireille couldn't do anything but stare. She saw and realized who it was. She saw the detailed colors from the sun and the hair itself, but that was only a mere spark; she saw the roundish, cute, yet silently observing face; she saw the petite form before her, standing right there to the point she could have just reached out and hugged Kirika—but she had no feelings yet. Kirika did not yet belong to this world; Mireille had nights of nightmares or pleasant dreams in which Kirika was simply alive, smiling, making tea, or fighting alongside Mireille. Even those dreams gave Mireille relief and hope—but right now, in the park, with Kirika, Mireille could not believe what she saw after days and dreams and nightmares of deceit. She could not believe it was true. She had literally lost the ability to feel hope, or even alive, and had to relearn it slowly.
Mireille stared, yet she seemed to only stare through Kirika. "Kirika . . .?"
Yet, something inside her tugged at her, told her she knew this wasn't possible. That blade went deep enough to be lethal.
Slowly, yet as if drowsy from a dream, Mireille wrapped her arms around Kirika and squeezed, never wanting to let go. "Kirika . . .!"
"Um, miss . . .?"
Mireille's azure-colored eyes stretched, embarrassed at once.
She drew back, half expecting this, but most of the time, hoping it wouldn't turn out like this. She stared down at a little boy, whom she assumed was around the age eleven. He wore a hooded sweatshirt with baggy khakis and black clog shoes. It was the brown mop of short hair that fooled Mireille into thinking he was Kirika.
How could I have mistaken him as Kirika?
The boy stared back, a bit taken aback with confusion. Also, with a look staring at Mireille saying, Stalker! Mireille pondered to herself, trying to grasp what made her mistaken him as Kirika.
Is it his cuteness? The hair? His innocence . . .? Mireille peered deeper into those dark, brown pools of light and comfort. There, she discovered the reason: No . . . it's his eyes . . . His eyes stared, muddy and deep, hiding things, yet saying so much. She took another look at his overall facial features—soft features: round, flawless cheeks, that quiet, doll-like expression, and dark Asian-like eyes.
No. He was definitely not Kirika. But he was at the same time . . .
Mireille took note of his Asian-like eyes. There was no way he was French nor Asian with his interesting genetic make-up . . .?
Finally, the boy whipped out a folded piece of paper, declaring, "Excuse me, miss, but before you kidnap me, take this. A lady told me to deliver this to you."
Just as Mireille accepted the letter, his words caught her attention at once, triggering alarm. Mireille glanced around with accusing eyes, looking sharply for any Soldats sensation coming from any suspect. Which one are you? She kept close watch on people lying down, reading, or doing other exercises.
Just as she said, "Merci", the boy darted off, screaming, "MOMMY! A SCARY BLONDE TRIED HUGGING ME!"
Angered with her delusions, Mireille snapped to herself, "He doesn't even look like her!" Quite baffled by the sudden change of strange events, Mireille slapped open the letter to read it aloud: "Big oak tree behind you. In ten minutes . . . ?"
Just as she thought: the Soldats were still there.
The Corsican lowered the letter, grinning, as if enjoying this sudden change of matter. First Kirika's death, then Chloe, now this?
Mireille tread a path along the grassy areas where people settled down, her purse close to her, hand ready to whip out her gun in preparation. She grumbled to herself, "And just when I was beginning to get myself settled from Chloe's settlement . . . why now?"
Pedestrians strolled by her, none suspicious enough to alarm her. She observed people lying down, reading, or joyfully having picnics. It lately occurred to her that the Soldats have gotten better at disguising themselves. They've decided not to wear those macho black suits and suspicious sunglasses like all pathetic spies. It would appear that their newest fashion of disguises were to not wear disguises at all, but to dress normally like any civilian. Picking out which of these normal civilians to be that female Soldat was going to be challenging.
The blonde passed a boy playing with his puppy, who definitely was not that boy minutes ago. "That boy couldn't be her, unless that's an ugly girl," Mireille told herself. This is ridiculous, scouting out Soldats.
She reached the big oak tree the Soldat was talking about. And waited, hands dug casually into her pocket, still clutching her pink purse.
Well, by now, she should make her Soldatsy appearance. Besides Chloe, I wonder how female Soldats make their appearances. All I've ever encountered were men.
A chirp caught her attention, tilting her head up to catch sight of a fledgling bird flapping its wings frantically. Its cry was heartbreaking, and Mireille understood it. That baby bird's calling for its missing mother. Sounds like me calling for help.
Mireille sighed, lost, knowing she'd never be found.
"Pardon me . . .?"
How many people could possibly sneak up on me like this?
Mireille peered over her shoulder, and couldn't help but just stare at what she had to admit to be the most charming, decent-looking gentleman she's ever seen.
Blue, bright eyes reflected hers. The youth held two ice-cream cones capped with chocolate sprinkled vanilla. His Aryan-like, dirty-blonde hair was greased back; face perfectly wide, yet thin, with an obviously strong, perfect jaw. Broad shoulders were evidence of a decent powerful body built, hidden by an oversized white casual button-up shirt.
"You're standing on my picnic blanket," he said.
Mireille looked down. It was a cliché, red, checkered picnic blanket. "Sorry."
"That's fine . . ."
Mireille stepped off, then watched the man silently as he rearranged the wrinkles in the blanket Mireille made. It didn't take him long to figure out she was watching. He stood up, turned, and looked at her with a confused, sheepish face.
Pretty eyes, thought Mireille. Then she shook herself out of it with an apologetic smile. Yet, she stared.
The youth cleared his throat and stated flatly, "Ahem. I'm a girl."
Mireille blinked. "Oh . . .!?"
"It's okay," insisted the androgynous woman with an awkward smile. "I got it a lot today, just because of this big shirt and my short hair."
"And your androgynous features."
"Ha, yeah. When I went to buy ice-cream, I spilled some on my shirt, so the man kindly offered me a free BIG T-shirt. Ha." The woman smiled goofily at herself. "So, um, yeah, nice knowing ya . . . well, that is, if you're going anywhere . . ."
She sat down, balancing herself so she could keep hold of her ice-cream cones.
For some reason, Mireille stood frozen, arms crossed, hand gripping the straps of her purse, expression anxious yet focused on the stranger.
The woman looked at her. "You okay? Is the heat getting to you—you want ice-cream?
Mireille stared at it, puzzled. "Hm? Your ice-cream? But, isn't that for someone else?"
"Nah."
For some reason, the Corsican accepted it and heartily bit into it, leaning against their oak tree. As she licked away at the taste of vanilla, she secretly watched the girl eating next to her on the grass. Wondering. Is there something wrong with me? I haven't really talked to any other humans before, not in a long time. Even Chloe and I barely exchanged words . . . has Kirika's death truly . . . made me unable to live, speak, or act like a human? Can I really not communicate . . .?
After a few minutes elapsed, the woman spoke once more. "So. I never thought Noir to be so friendly."
Mireille gasped. Her eyes darted down at the Soldat, who grumbled to herself, "Yum."
She backed up, pointing a finger. "Did you poison my ice-cream?"
Badgered, the Soldat remarked, "Geez, first you mistaking me as a boy, now this." She continued licking her ice-cream. "The name's Valerie. The Soldats assigned me to give you a simple message: meet Deux tomorrow back here around noon."
"Why couldn't this Deux coward just tell me that himself?" retorted Mireille, eyeing the Soldat carefully.
"Because we Soldats like to confuse you with all our messengers we send out to you," answered Valerie with a grin, which Mireille couldn't tell if it was a joke or a taunt. "Oh, and bring Chloe."
Mireille flicked hair off her shoulders and folded her arms. She glared, reminding coldly, "Don't even start with me: You know Chloe and I hate each other. She's gone by now—hopefully."
Go figure, thought Valerie. She took another bite. "It is said that Noir is stubborn. There is no doubt that Chloe will remain with you, because if remaining Noir with you means pleasing Altena and the Soldats of Old, then she has no choice. And if you remain Noir with Chloe, then you wont' be sanctioned. Another reason for you to remain with her, to your dislike. I'm pretty sure she would like it if you lived on . . . after all, she did sadly, 'serve as a lamb on the altar' for your sake."
Kirika.
"If you want to keep your promise to her, don't kill Chloe nor let yourself die."
After a pause of silence, the softness in Mireille's eyes faded, as she glared at Valerie. "I daresay, you know your stuff for someone who should mind her own business. So, do me a favor and stay out. This is between only Chloe and I. If I want to rid myself of her, I'll do it." Mireille's voice shook with cold assurance.
"Careful, Noir. Go against the Soldats of Old and Altena, and you'll end up like your beloved friend before you." Valerie casually snugged a hand in her pocket, staring at Mireille and the path ahead of her.
Mireille closed her eyes, as if concentrating on finding the right words. "I think I'll take my chances. And Noir's just a name, not my name, so don't direct that name at me, Valerie."
"Heed my warning," asked Valerie as Mireille walked away. "You don't know who or what you're up against, Mireille Bouquet. Be careful of what you do or say . . . because they're always watching you and her. Soldats have to know your business to the point that even I know your business."
Valerie watched helplessly as the stubborn hand of the Soldats walked out on her.
Mireille didn't dare glance over her shoulder back at the Soldat, but something didn't seem . . . right. She literally could feel Valerie's eyes on her, her very solid presence against her back, as she continued walking. Curiosity hung there for a moment, but Mireille shook it off and hurried home, anticipating it was empty.